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Sherlock Holmes
Hey, congratulations on selling your Kensington practice, holmes said to his friend, who now had a lot more free time to hang out at Holmes Flat. Dr. Verner will not let it fall to ruin. Dr. Watson sat back, puffing his pipe. He should hope not. And wait. He never told Holmes Dr. Werner about his practice. Detective. I Detective thing, Swatson. I would think that after all these years, you might have caught up. I'm Sherlock Holmes. And I'm Sherlock. Please stop. I'm only going to ask you this once. Did you have anything to do with me selling my practice so we would have more time to hang out? Just then the bell rang. Oh. Sherlock looked to the door. Sweaty man incoming. They put a pin in this for later, Mr. John Hector MacFarlane was indeed sweaty, but not exercise sweaty. The I've just discovered that I'm wanted for murder on my train ride into London type of sweaty. He had loosened his tie and he was pacing Sherlock's flat, nearly hyperventilating. Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane, Sherlock offered. I'm sure that with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here would prescribe a sedative. Stop asking me to do that. Dr. Watson furrowed his prodigious brow. For as great a detective as he was, Sherlock still hadn't deduced the location of Watson's old prescription pads. Watson, knowing how good a detective Sherlock was, had burned them weeks ago. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the pacing MacFarlane. You mentioned your name as if I should recognize you, but I assure you that beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatsoever about you. McFarlane gasped. How did Mr. Holmes know? Watson shook his head, noting the man's untidy attire. Bachelor, the sheaf of legal papers. Solicitor. The watch, charm mason, and the breathing that he had taught Sherlock to spot. Asthmatic. Watson looked up from his paper in brief horror that in an instant he had deduced the same things as Sherlock. No, he could have those same abilities and not be a jerk. Right? They're coming to arrest me, Mr. Holmes. MacFarlane set his papers on the table and went to the window. Sherlock smiled. This was getting good. All right, out with it before they get here. I am charged with the murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre of Lower Norwood. Mr. McFarlane's voice cracked. All right. First degree murder. I knew this was going to be a good week, Sherlock said. McFarland was horrified. Sherlock grimaced. What, I can't be excited about a mystery? This isn't all about you, you know. It was Then that. Watson flipped the paper and something caught his eye. A name. John Hector MacFarlane on the front page. Watson got Sherlock's attention and started reading. Mr. Jonas Oldacre of Lower Norwood, a suburb south of London, is feared D. Oldacre, a Bachelor of 52 years of age, was something of a recluse. After amassing considerable wealth, he withdrew into his manor. Last night at midnight. Neighbors noticed a fire burning in his yard. A massive dry pile of tinder went up and threatened the forest. So first the firefighters put that out before going to alert the owner of the house. But Mr. Oldacre could not be found. What they did find, however, were signs of a struggle. Blood stains on a walking stick, one belonging to John Hector McFarlane, Jr. Partner of Graham & McFarlane. The French windows of his office were found thrown open, and it was apparent that something had been dragged across the yard to the woodpile. Among the ash they found human remains. Oldacre had received Mr. McFarland as a visitor late in his office, per his appointment book. Watson looked up. The paper said there was a warrant out for MacFarlane's arrest. Sherlock rose, bristling with excitement. Wait. How did MacFarlane make it here, then? MacFarlane said he found out about the warrant, like the rest of London, from the paper on the train. He came from Norwood up to London Bridge Station. He walked up to Baker Street. You walked, Sherlock said. And wasted precious time. Why not take the Jubilee Line? Anachronism. Watson coughed. Jubilee Line won't be open for another 70 years. Oh, right, yeah, Sherlock said. Still, it's like a four mile walk. That explains the sweat. There was pounding at the door. A four mile walk on which you were apparently followed, Sherlock said, glancing down the hallway. Hi, Inspector. Sherlock shouted. Hold on. Sherlock went to open the door and Inspector Lestrade pushed past him, walking into the flat. Mr. John Hector McFarland, said Lestrade, almost rhetorically, because he didn't wait for an answer. I arrest you for the willful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. One moment, Lestrade, Sherlock said, holding up a finger and standing between the police and McFarland. Half an hour won't make a difference to you. And it will aid us in clearing this up. Sherlock. There's nothing to clear up. Lestrade glanced at the paper. Sherlock had evidently read about it. He knew the case. He couldn't see Sherlock roll his eyes, but the detective turned and in a mock obsequious bow, asked for the inspector's permission to hear the account from MacFarland. Sherlock knew full well that Lestrade and Scotland Yard couldn't refuse so innocent a request, especially from someone who had helped them so much. Lestrade said that they had half an hour. He told his men to get their notebooks out. Sherlock gestured to McFarland. Well, get talking, macfarland began. He knew of Old Acre, but hadn't actually met him until the previous day of him. How? You said you live in Blackheath. McFarlane's parents apparently knew of him from long ago. He had heard the name here and there when he was a child, but he never saw the man until he entered McFarlane's law office the previous day. And why did he arrive there? Sherlock asked. MacFarlane took a rolled up handful of papers out of his pocket. These his will. He wanted me to cast it in proper legal shape. Sherlock, looking over the papers, arrived at the revelation the moment MacFarlane said it. He was going to make me his sole heir and beneficiary. MacFarlane swallowed hard. The police pencil scribbled furiously. I questioned it, of course, macfarlane said, looking to the officers who did not give him the comfort of understanding that he sought. He said he was a bachelor. He had known my parents in his youth, and he had looked into me and I was a deserving young man. MacFarland looked to the ground. I thanked him, or tried to. I couldn't speak. A clerk witnessed the signatures and it was finished then? No? Well, yes. But he had other papers. Leases, mortgages, titles, liens. Things he said I had to see and understand. He said his mind wouldn't be easy until this whole thing was settled, and that I needed to come to his house in Norwood. I said we could get something on the schedule for early next week, but he insisted that it was yesterday night, so I agreed. I reasoned that those were still billable hours. You would earn a whole lot more than that, Lestrade muttered. MacFarlane's shoulders slumped. Sherlock shot the detective a glance and asked if that was all. MacFarlane did say that Oldacre had told him not to tell his parents about the will, sure, but even about the meeting? That it would be a fun surprise from an old friend. MacFarland agreed, but Oldacre made him swear it. So he showed up at 9pm for a late supper. Who let you in? Sherlock interrupted. MacFarlane thought about it. The housekeeper. He couldn't remember her name. Anyway, she took him back to the sitting room where supper was laid out. Afterwards, Oldacre took him to his bedroom, where there were a mass of documents from the safe by the wall, and the pair went over them it had to be between 11 and 12 at night before they were finished. Oldacre became very concerned about the waking of the housekeeper, so he told MacFarlane to be very quiet and that he could leave through the French doors in the office instead of the front door. Was the blind down? Sherlock still paced? MacFarlane wasn't sure. Yes, at least partially. Oldacre had to lift it when he opened the doors. As MacFarland left, he realized that he left his walking stick. He looked around the bedroom for it, but Oldacre waved it off. He might have left it out in the hall or elsewhere, but Oldacre didn't want to wake the servant so late. So MacFarland left and walked to Enerly Arms where he stayed the night. It was too late to head back to Blackheath. He learned about the murder on the train this morning, the same time as everyone else. Watson was taking notes and Sherlock took a seat. Well, anything else? Inspector? Lestrade asked Sherlock. Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips. No, not until he had been to Blackheath at any rate. Norwood. You mean where Oldacre lived? Lestrague corrected. Did I? Sherlock had a bemused smirk. Well, sure. Let's suppose I did mean that. Sherlock and Watson watched as MacFarland went without incident. Lestrade removed all pertinent documents from his person and Sherlock glanced over. Funny document that. Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Funny how exactly? Sherlock pointed. Well, that was the will Oldacre drew up for MacFarlane to put into legal form, right? Well, why would a man draw up his will on the train to meet his solicitor? Watson, overhearing, shook his head, looking at Lestrade. Don't do it. It was like catnip to Sherlock. He couldn't resist. How do you suppose it was drawn up on a train? Lestrade looked at the paper. Watson could almost see the feeling of self important superiority hit Sherlock's bloodstream. Watson too had seen something odd about the document. There were parts of it that were extremely clear, while others were garbled to the point of being illegible. Watson hadn't arrived at the train conclusion, but he probably would have gotten there. Now that Sherlock mentioned it, he could see it clearly too. The times when the writing devolved into chicken scratch or when the train slowed to a stop. Looking at it and a train map, you could probably plot Oldacre's course to a solicitor's office. And that's probably Norwood and that's London Bridge. Sherlock was tracing it with his finger. He was drawing up his own death warrant. Lestrade handed off the papers to a constable? Possibly. Sherlock shrugged. But if it were him, he would put more care into his will, not ride it on a train. Especially when it was so important that MacFarlane handle all of the business immediately. According to MacFarland, Lestrade said. Sherlock smirked and crossed his arms. Lestrade continued, all Sherlock had currently was the testimony of the prime suspect. McFarland had means, motive and opportunity. He discovered that a rich man left him a fortune and showed up at his house that night. Next thing, the rich man is dead and there's McFarland's stick with blood on it. But McFarlane said he's a murderer. Lestrade stopped himself. McFarland was a suspect in a murder. Sherlock was over complicating things here. He had solved too many of his bizarre cases to see a mundane one when it was right before his eyes. There was no Sherlock Holmes of crime. Most crimes are committed by people who are opportunistic and unable to make their way by legitimate means. They made mistakes, like McFarland had when he left the murder weapon at the scene of the crime. Sherlock said it proved nothing, especially when it came to McFarland. It could have been a break in. After McFarland left, someone came in, seized upon McFarland's walking stick, bludgeoned Oldacre, and then, realizing that his safe only contained papers, burned the body to hide the crime. Both Watson and Lestrade looked at Sherlock. Really? That was his working theory? A tramp walks in and murders Oldacre, taking nothing? Sherlock said it wasn't his working theory. He was saying it was a possibility. And if it was a possibility, then they shouldn't speak of McFarlane's guilt as a foregone conclusion. Lestrade laughed. Sure. Well, Sherlock could look for his tramp. If Scotland Yard needed him, they would call. I don't. I'm not going to go looking for a tramp. I was posing a hypothetical. Sherlock called after Lestrade, who opened the door to Sherlock's flat and saw himself out muffled through the walls. Sherlock was sure he heard the word tramp mixed in with all the laughter. So you're going to Blackheath, the location of McFarlane's house and not Norwood. The location of the crime. Watson folded his paper. I bet you're curious as to why I chose Blackheath, huh, Watson? Watson said, as long as it wasn't just to be contrary to what the police were doing. Sherlock blinked. It wasn't. Watson waited. It mostly wasn't. Sherlock said there were two singular incidents and the police were going straight to the second whilst ignoring the first. It's because the second incident is an actual crime, a murder. And it was their job to investigate crimes. Watson said he knew why Sherlock was doing this. There was a reason Oldacre left his possessions to McFarlane, the relationship with the parents. Investigating that would help them understand the nature of all of this. Still, it was fun to get Sherlock worked up. After Sherlock finished explaining all that again, he gathered his hat and coat and left for Blackheath. We'll see what Sherlock learns in Blackheath, but that will be right after this. This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance. Do you ever think about switching insurance companies to see if you could save some cash? Progressive makes it easy to see if you could save when you bundle your home and auto policies. Try it@progressive.com Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates. Potential savings will vary. Not available in all states. Ever notice how ads always pop up at the worst moments, when the killer's identity is about to be revealed? During that perfect meditation flow on Amazon Music, we believe in keeping you in the moment. That's why we've got millions of ad free podcast episodes, so you can stay completely immersed in every story, every reveal, every breath. Download the Amazon music app and start listening to your favorite podcasts, ad free included with Prime. It wasn't a few hours before he was back and Watson was still in the main room. He didn't ask how it went. One, because it was obvious badly, and two, because he was sure Sherlock would tell him. After an hour of violin therapy, Sherlock put his violin down and breathed. Well, he's lost it? Watson asked. Lost what exactly? Sherlock said. His edge. He knew this day would come. No one remains at the top forever, Watson said. Okay, my instincts are wrong. I have to move or fake my own death. That might be easier, Sherlock said. The day finally came when all Sherlock's instincts and intuitions went one way and the facts of the case went the other. Did Lestrade really have him? Watson waited and Sherlock explained his visit to Blackheath. He was more like a malignant and cunning ape than a human being, Mrs. McFarlane said of Oldacre. And he always was, ever since he was a young man. Sherlock threw up his hands. He didn't know what to say. If a jury heard her speak like that and knew that the McFarland family hated Oldacre, that was even more motive. Apparently Oldacre was a former suitor of Mrs. McFarland in her youth. Hoping to make her Mrs. Oldacre, she thanked God she had the good sense to turn him away for a better, if poorer, man. She told Sherlock of a few of Oldacre's exploits. He let a cat loose in an aviary for fun, watching with delight as the cat hunted down each of the captive birds, playing with them before killing them and eating them. And then glee, as the owner of the aviary came to discover the birds were no more than feathers, blood and bones. That incident brought the little cruelties of their relationship into focus, and she called off the engagement at her marriage to Mr. McFarland. He sent her a wedding present, the picture of herself that she had given him. It looked like he had sat hacking away at it with a knife. Sherlock said he took the train to Oldacre's house after, in Norwood, and it looked bad for McFarland. His parents, his mother at least, hated Oldacre and the house. The ground was hard with a recent drought, so there weren't any clues there. Sherlock sifted through what remained of the fire, and there were human remains in the ashes, along with a few little metal discs. Those were buttons, the same buttons from old Akers Taylor. The blood stains were slight, but fresh. The stick had marks on it. Sherlock crawled along the carpets, sniffed the walls and laid on his back and dragged himself on the hard dirt. He bounced on the couch cushions of the office and laid down in the bed. There was one thing, though. The papers from the safe. They appeared to be incomplete. Sherlock was able to sift through enough of them before the police needed their look. Sherlock had talked to the housekeeper, but her story corroborated Lestrade's version. She went to bed at half past ten, and since her room was on the other side of the house, she awoke to the sounds from the firefighters. She cursed MacFarland and her own hand for letting him in. Sherlock swore and clenched his fist. Every instinct he had told him McFarland was innocent. He felt it in his bones. Watson. His bones. Watson, are you even paying attention? I'm being very dramatic here. Watson exhaled and folded his paper. Oh, this is a dialogue, then? Instead of a soliloquy where Sherlock was the only person in the world. Sherlock said, really? They were doing this again? Sherlock, we've talked about this. I'm happy to help, but I'm not just anyone. I'm not some rube, some stranger off the street who's impressed by your tricks. I'm not just gonna sit back and be a human whiteboard so you can verbally unravel your thoughts before coming to an epiph. Watson, that's it? Sherlock snapped his fingers. Epiphany. Watson finished and went back to his paper. Sherlock rushed to his desk and pulled out a piece of paper, beginning to write something down. He brought it over to Watson and paused. Watson, may I ask you about the case we're working on together and the client we're trying to keep alive? Also together? Watson groaned. Yes. Sherlock put the piece of paper down on the evening news. It was Oldacre's bank balance, recreated from memory. It's low for someone so rich, Watson observed. Sherlock pointed. It's because of Cornelius. Mr. Cornelius? Several large checks have been made out to a Mr. Cornelius over the past year. Like new car sized checks. If cars existed. Cars exist, Sherlock corrected. They. They have since the early 1800s. But Watson, with his little stranger comment reminded Sherlock of the only clue that stood out. Something was up with this. Sherlock patted Watson on the back, thanking him for his help. Watson sighed and went back to his paper. Hey, Sherlock. Watson called up the stairs at 221B Baker street you received a telegram from Lestrade. He says there's been important fresh evidence. MacFarlane's guilt has been established beyond all possible doubt. He advises you to abandon your case lest you embarrass yourself. But he also says he's really down with you embarrassing yourself. This is a long telegram. Sherlock rushed down the stairs and snatched the telegram. Watson said, it was said literally, just that. Sherlock laughed. Lestrade knew. He knew that Sherlock's intuition wasn't wrong. He was scared. It was a little cock, a doodle of victory. Or he thinks you're really off base this time and he wants to save you the embarrassment, Watson observed. Sherlock was about to say that no one would do that, but Watson cut in. Just because Sherlock wouldn't do it, that doesn't mean no one would do it. So are they going to Norwood to see what this fresh evidence was? That's the plan, right? Sherlock folded up the telegram. Yeah. Let's go. Have you proven us wrong yet? Found your tramp? Lestrade asked as the police officers behind him began to laugh. Ha. Sherlock started to say that that wasn't an actual theory, only a possibility, but Watson kept him from that obvious bait when he asked what this new evidence was. Mr. Sherlock. Dr. Watson, are you aware of this new science called fingerprints? It's the idea that no two person's fingers are exactly alike. Yes. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his shoes. When they made it into the house, Lestrade pointed to the wall. There it was. To anyone who hadn't studied the wall, a smudge But Sherlock and Watson looked closer. It was an unmistakable oval, the red brown of a thumbprint left in blood. But we don't know, Sherlock said, and turned around to see a wax print that had been brushed in powder while Strahd held it up next to the mark on the wall. A bloody thumbprint. That's it, then. Dr. Watson assumed what Sherlock was confirming with a magnifying glass. The prints matched. They had MacFarlane's thumb in blood at the scene of the murder. This is final. Lestrade had to hide his glee. I mean, murders were bad, of course, but it was so nice to be right and not be subjected to Sherlock's schoolteacher schtick. How did you find this print? Sherlock asked, looking at it from every angle and judging his own height in relation to the print. And why did you not find it in any of the preceding days? Lestrade said the housekeeper noticed it and alerted the guard. Lestrade posted after Sherlock was rubbing his face all over the crime scene the other day. Sherlock Mock staggered out of the room, nearly putting his thumb in the exact spot, as if he, say, lost his balance. It is the perfect spot. Makes complete sense. And you're sure it was there before last night? Sherlock looked down the hall. Are you implying that MacFarland broke out of jail to strengthen the evidence against him? Lestrade took a deep breath. He told Sherlock it's okay to be wrong. Everyone was cocksure. Sometimes that's a different word, Sherlock noted. I know. It just popped into my head, Lestrade said. But no, this was unquestionably MacFarlane's thumb. Oh, I don't doubt that. Sherlock stroked his chin. Lestrade said that he had humored Sherlock enough. He was going to write up this case and make his recommendations for the crown solicitors, or however this works in this time period in England. Dr. Watson looked directly at the camera. That being part of this conversation implies that the research was not done and that we're just moving on. As a deep dive into the prosecution process would only detract from the story. He smiled and lit his pipe. Indubitably. Lestrade said if they needed him, he would be writing his report in the sitting room. Sherlock motioned to Watson outside. That mark wasn't there yesterday. Sherlock shook his head, the aroma of the garden a pleasant juxtaposition to Sherlock's brimming anxiety. Remember how I was so thorough? I don't miss details. Especially not a bloody thumbprint. Watson had to admit many people might miss a smudge on a wall. Most, even. But Sherlock, it wasn't Just unlikely. It was impossible. I believe you. Watson turned from the flowers to meet the eyes of his friend, but Sherlock was already running toward the house. Watson found him on the third floor, staring at three empty bedrooms. From the look of things, they had sat empty for some time. Sherlock was smiling his mad, wry smile that he only smiled when he was truly challenged. He half ran, half stumbled down the stairs. It's time to take Inspector Lestrade into our confidence, sherlock called back. Sherlock evidently made a stop in between the third floor and the sitting room because he arrived after Watson brushing dust from his coat. After a brief talk promising that this was the last Lestrade would ever hear about this case from Sherlock, Lestrade confirmed that, yes, he did have three constables on sight. Yes, they did have deep, loud voices. Go and get them. Lestrade rolled his eyes. He could do with a walk, sure, but this was it. Oh, and tell them to bring a bucket of water and meet me on the third floor, sherlock said in a whisper as Lestrade passed. The moment Lestrade was out of sight, Sherlock rushed to the back door to find some hay he had gathered from the barn. Watson followed him up two flights of stairs until he found the detective piling hay in the middle of the hallway. Matches? Sherlock demanded from Watson. Dr. Watson asked what Sherlock was doing here. Hurry, before Lestrade returns with his men, Sherlock said. Watson took his time reaching inside his coat before producing the matches. Sherlock snatched them from his hand. Seriously, what are you doing, Sherlock? Watson said, stepping back. Me? Sherlock said, striking the match. Lest Straub was right. I'm a failure. And this is the site of my failure. I'm going to burn this house to the ground. He dropped the flame on the pile of dry hay. As soon as Sherlock dropped the match, they heard boots on the nearby stairs. Lestrade and his constables had to catch their breath. Why did we have to come all the way to the third floor? This place will be my funeral pyre. Lestrade saw Sherlock's face, flickering and smiling like a demon in the hallway, the hay popping and crackling beneath him. Fire. There's a fire. Lestrade and his constables yelled. Sherlock stepped in between the constables and the flame. No. This was an old house. It would go quickly. It would burn. Sherlock, Watson said. I'm sorry, Watson. This house, you, me, Lestrade, we're all going with it. No one will ever know of my failure here. Just then, a wall popped open at the end of the hallway. A wizened man emerged, panicked. He put his handkerchief over his nose, put it out, put it out. Sherlock's madness evaporated and he grabbed the bucket from the constable and doused the flame. There was only a little damage to the floor Lestrade wanted to tear into Sherlock, but he was distracted by the apparently very mobile corpse that had emerged from the secret room at the end of the hall. Mr. Oldacre, Sherlock said with a sneer. The way the constable stood, there was no escape for Oldacre and he smiled sheepishly. Hello, officers. Restrain him, Lestrade said. The constables thundered forward. It was a joke. I was only a joke. I've done no harm, the man said as his face hit the floor. A joke? Yeah. You were going to get an innocent man hanged, Lestrade said and told his constables to take the man down to the sitting room. He would be down shortly. First he needed to have a word with Mr. Holmes. Lestrade, Sherlock and Watson waited for Oldacre to be dragged downstairs, and Lestrade waited until the last of the boot sounds disappeared before turning to Sherlock. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. How did you do that? That was amazing. Lestrade fangirled something Watson hadn't seen in years and hoped not to see again. Lestrade confessed that had MacFarlane been hanged and it been revealed that he not only didn't murder Oldaker, but Oldacre had never been murdered at all. His reputation in the force would be ruined. You might even be promoted now. Sherlock smiled. He didn't need to be on the report. The consulting detective had been on enough of them. The criminals should see that. They shouldn't try to throw sand in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade. Come. Sherlock waved. Let's see where this rat has been lurking. The door was flush with the wall to make the cracks invisible. Oldacre, a builder by trade, had likely built the compartment himself. Inside it was tidya cot, a supply of food and water. It was lit by some slits concealed by the eaves outside. Likely the only other person to know about it was the housekeeper who Lestrade should arrest on his way out. But how did you find it? Lestrade had to know. How had he missed it so fully that the hallway is six feet shorter than the house, with no corresponding space? Sherlock said, and Watts embraced for some observation that would seem frightfully clever at first, but which would seem painfully obvious upon reflection, and which Sherlock would lord over him and the inspector for the rest of the week. Faith, Sherlock said. Both men paused. What? Not facts? No, definitely facts. But I. I would have given up much sooner if not for that fingerprint. Sherlock smiled. Both men didn't understand. It didn't make sense. The fingerprint was the final condemning evidence, and it wasn't there yesterday. Sherlock pointed at Lestrade. Lestrade hadn't noted it. Sherlock hadn't noted it. Everyone accepted it. Everyone but him. He trusted in his ability, what he could see with his eyes, and more importantly, what he hadn't seen with his eyes. Oldacre overplayed his hand, sitting there in the dark, stewing on whether he had gone far enough. He remembered the wax seal with MacFarlane's prints, pricked his finger and placed that last piece of evidence on the wall. But why? Sherlock clasped him on the shoulder. That was why he went to Blackheath before coming here the other day. Oldacre was a cunning man, one without empathy. A narcissist who stewed on her. Wrong. For years he had been refused by MacFarlane's mother, and he had likely planned for years how he would repay her. And he only needed to wait for one other person. Lestrade shook his head. Watson nodded. Mr. Cornelius? Yes. Sherlock beamed. Okay. Who is Mr. Cornelius? An accomplice. Lestrade took out his notepad. Of sorts, Sherlock replied, and threw it to Dr. Watson. Oldacre was Mr. Cornelius. Watson said he hadn't seen the papers, but he could. He could, by inductive logic, figure out what Sherlock had seen. Sherlock said that Oldacre didn't have a lot of money for a rich man, but he had many creditors. He also had made out several massive checks to one Mr. Cornelius. Stands to reason, then, that after some speculation went wrong, Oldacre was on the hook for more money than he could pay. So he would both make his escape and get back at the girl he had loved in his youth. Sherlock paced. It was perfect. The man was an artist. He crafted a net from which there was no escape. And MacFarlane flew right into it like an unsuspecting fly. But Oldacre didn't have the supreme gift of the artist knowing when to stop. When a work was complete. He wanted to draw the rope around McFarlane's neck tighter. But adding to a perfect work doesn't make it more perfect. It ruins it. The trio traveled to the sitting room to find Oldacre and Cuffs. He said that this was only a joke he was playing on an old friend. They didn't actually have him on anything. That will be for the courts to decide. I think they have a case for attempted murder myself, Sherlock said. Oldacre replied that they would be hearing from his solicitors. Who will pay for them? I hope you aren't waiting on help from Mr. Cornelius. His assets would be seized to pay your creditors. Oldacre grew grim. One more question, Mr. Oldacre. What was in the fire? Dogs? Rabbits. Oldacre smiled. Sherlock sighed. Deductive logic, then. Okay. Three rabbits would do it. He imagined a man like Oldacre took joy in completing that grisly task too. Well, as much joy as a man like Oldacre was capable of feeling. They took him away, and as Sherlock and Watson walked to the station, Sherlock said things were getting colder, more sophisticated. Dr. Watson said he didn't understand. I don't know what it is, Watson, but I'm getting a feeling things have been quiet except for these few big cases. But I don't know. I'm only one man. I couldn't have had that big of an effect. Watson laughed. He was Sherlock Holmes. All around London and the world, people knew of him, knew of his legend. And only the very brave or the very foolish would try to commit a crime while he was around. Sherlock had changed things. Sherlock forced a smile. Yes, he supposed he had. And that was exactly what he was afraid of. Do you like how we get like one of these every, I don't know, two years? And yet I still dangle the possibility of Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, every single time. Sorry, I can't resist. Like most adaptations, I love the idea of a worthy opponent for Sherlock. But unlike most adaptations, we're gonna stick to the original story, so no spoilers, but we really only get one shot at Fictional is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Today's story was adapted from the Adventure of the Norwood Builder by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Next time we'll be telling more stories from O. Henry, AKA William Sidney Porter on the podcast, and that will be in two weeks. If you'd like to connect with us, I posted links to our Discord server in the show notes. 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